


Avec Amour, de France

by lesbiagnes



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Because Author Speaks French and Indonesian and Likes Projecting onto Characters, Bilingual Character(s), Brief mention of Martin being trans, Fluff, M/M, Self-Indulgent, a lil bit of angst, just a splash, martin has a language kink but it's rated G
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 01:55:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19820134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbiagnes/pseuds/lesbiagnes
Summary: In which Martin discovers Jon can speak French





	Avec Amour, de France

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't properly wrote anything in like a year ??? so this is really bad ???? but that's okay
> 
> lmk if there are any mistakes please and thank you xx

“Tu es mon cœur,” Jon whispered into Martin’s hair.

They were huddled on the sofa together, an episode of Eastenders playing on the television because Martin insisted on watching it. Martin’s head was resting on Jon’s shoulder, Jon’s fingers idly playing with the ginger strands. He wasn’t really paying attention to the plot of the show – he knows enough about British soap operas to know that someone’s probably been murdered or cheated on, and when the same stories get rehashed over and over again, it drains the life out of the British culture of dramas – but he suffers through it for the sake of Martin. Even if he’s somewhere else mentally.

He had more important things to focus on, anyway.

Most importantly, the ever-looming power of The Lonely that threatens to take Martin from his grasp. He had barely managed to convince Martin to come home with him; he had cornered Martin before he left the institute, offering to take him home. Martin’s emotions were complicated - layered and buried deep under years of repression and standards that he struggled to meet - and Jon knew that the naïve, sympathetic boy had taken the backseat while Peter Lukas controlled Martin’s every move.

“You’re not going to compel me to tell you something, are you?” Martin had said. 

He’d kept a decent distance between him and Jon, and Jon’s heart ached a little at the fact that Martin felt he had to.

“Martin, I love you, and I’m not going to make you tell me something you don’t want to.”

Martin had bit his lip, refusing to meet Jon’s eyes, before nodding, and following Jon out into the cold night air.

The Lonely was planning something, and Jon wanted to kick himself for allowing Martin to get involved so easily. He should have known Peter Lukas would take over the institute, and he should have known Martin would get caught up in it because it’s Martin and he doesn’t know when to stay away from something.

Jon knew he tended to spew lines of French whenever he was stressed, if only out of habit from his teen years of wanting to be better than his peers. It was a coping mechanism of sorts, if yelling bits of broken French could make anyone feel okay. Which is why he didn’t even realise he’s said anything until Martin picked his head up from his spot and looked at Jon, a horrible mix of surprise and confusion scrawled across his face.

“You speak French?”

Jon shrugged, “I learnt it in secondary school. And I continued learning it at college and university.”

“Why did you never mention it? Does anyone else know?”

“It’s not a huge _thing_ , Martin. It’s just a language.”

Martin twisted out of Jon’s arms so he could face him properly. Blue bled into brown and, for a second, everything was perfect and the whole universe laid itself out for Jonathan Sims, the Archivist who couldn’t walk away from a fight even if he tried.

“Yes, but being bilingual means you can do so many cool things,” Martin said, “You can talk about people without them knowing; you can help people in other countries; we could have our honeymoon in Paris.”

There was a dreamy look in Martin’s eyes that Jon has only seen on a handful of occasions and it made his heart flutter briefly. It must have shown on his face, as Martin perks up even more and a smile spreads across his entire face, stars flashing in his eyes and a dusting of pink has plastered itself on his cheeks, and gently spreading up his ears.

He looked like an oil painting.

“Honeymoon? Martin we’re not even- you know what, never mind.”

It wasn’t like Jon had never considered it – Jon had experienced many a dream where him and Martin had tied the knot, but bringing it up now would get Martin’s hopes up, and with the way the Lonely is causing havoc in Martin’s head, and the still semi-recent revelation about his mother still dragging him down into the dirt, Jon didn’t think Martin could survive another disappointment.

A silence covered them once again, as Martin settled back into his original position, his thumb tracing the scars along Jon’s hand. It was peaceful – almost tranquil. It was an unspoken rule that Martin needed this silence. His life had been full of noise up until this point, from his father yelling at his mother before turning on him, to shouts and jeers of kids in school because he was gay and trans, to the constant clamorous noise of the institute. 

Which is why a dribble of shock slipped into Jon’s mind when Martin spoke again. 

“What is honeymoon in French?”

Jon let out a breath of laughter at the sheer stupidity of Martin’s question. 

“La lune de miel. Now can you please shut up about the French language.”

Martin blinked at him, and Jon feared that he was too short, _too angry_ , at Martin, and an apology began to gather itself on his tongue, _because he never wanted to hurt him or scare him or make him feel like they couldn’t joke about anything and it’s just because everything’s too much right now and I’m so scared you’re going to leave._

“Jon? Jon, what’s wrong?” Martin asked, concern suffocating all of his words. 

There was a hand on Jon’s cheek, and other one on his leg. He was safe, _Martin was safe_. For now, at least. But it was all the relief Jon needed to clear the fog in his head. 

“I’m alright. Did you want something? Tea? Biscuits?” 

“No.” Martin blushed and ducked his head down. “I want to hear you speak more French.” 

_This man is going to be the death of me,_ Jon thought. 

“Excuse me, Martin Blackwood, someone on Eastenders is about to meet their demise and you want to talk about the French language,” He deadpanned. 

Martin rolled his eyes. “You weren’t even watching it.” He positioned himself in Jon’s lap, his knees bracketing Jon’s legs. “I thought French was a romance language anyway?” 

“It is.” 

“So be romantic.” 

“That’s not how it works Martin. Romance languages are called that because they evolved from Latin, not because they’re good for seducing your boyfriend.” 

Martin arched an eyebrow, “Indulge me, Mr Archivist.” 

“Je t’aime.” 

“Cute.” 

“Tu me rends heureuse.” 

Martin made a sound of approval. 

A sudden thought flashed in Jon’s head. 

“How much French do you actually know, Martin?” 

Martin tapped Jon’s nose. “Less English, more…” He waved his hands about, searching for the word. 

“Français?” 

“Français.” 

Jon sighed. 

“Je t’aimerai pour toujours.” 

“Keep going.” 

“L’amour de ma vie est très stupide,” Jon said with a grin. 

Martin punched his arm. Clearly, he knew exactly what Jon was saying, so he leaned forward to place his lips near Martin’s ear. 

“J’adore mon petit ange,” Jon whispered. 

And Martin looked at Jon like he’d just hung the stars. As if he’d just sent a rocket up to rearrange the stars just so he could say they were aligned for them. Martin Blackwood was a complicated collection of shapes, words, fears and raw emotion, but in that moment he was one singular thing; art. 

A smile spread over Martin’s face before he said: “Kamu bidadari di hatiku.” 

Jon furrowed his brows. “What language is _that_?” 

“Indonesian.” 

Jon’s frown deepened. 

“How can you speak Indonesian?” 

“My grandmother taught it me when I lived over there,” Martin said. 

Jon wanted to dig deeper, he _could_ dig deeper, but he knew how sensitive Martin was about his family, and after the sheer amount of coaxing it took to get Martin over to his house, Jon didn’t have the nerve to break his trust now. 

“What does it mean?” Jon asked hesitantly. 

Martin trailed his fingers down to Jon’s jaw, and pushed his head up so they could see eye to eye. Jon’s heart stuttered in his chest when those ocean eyes looked like they held the answer to every question he had in tiny bottles, floating out to sea across stormy tides. 

“Tu es le ange de mon cœur." 

Jon leaned closer, and kissed him. 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on twitter @sylviatillys and on tumblr @ensigntilly hehehe


End file.
